The Mordida Man

26

The plane in which Chubb Dunjee flew across the Mediterranean from Rome to Tripoli was the same Boeing 727 in which Bingo McKay’s ear had been removed. Because of some kind of unexplained mechanical difficulties, the plane had not left Rome until nearly five o’clock in the morning. At 5:46 A.M., the plane’s passengers could watch dawn break over the sea.

“It’s getting light,” Delft Csider said. Dunjee and Harold Hopkins turned to look out the window, then turned back.

“You resist, he implores, then you give in,” she said and shook her head. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“What’s she talking about?” Hopkins said.

“It’s how he works,” Csider said. “He puts his neck in the noose, then tries to talk his way out of it before they draw it tight and cut off all the air. All the hot air.”

Hopkins frowned. “I didn’t sign on for this, mate. I signed on for Rome with maybe a quick peek at the Colosseum. I didn’t sign on for Libya. What the hell’s in Libya?”

“A lot of sand,” Dunjee said. “And a lot of oil.”

“Before the oil, you know what they used to call it?” Csider asked.

“The poorest country on earth,” Dunjee said.

“I forgot,” she said. “You were with the UN.”

“World War Two scrap and esparto grass. That’s about all Libya had to export then. They didn’t even want to let them into the UN, because everyone knew they’d be just another LDC with their hand out.”

“What’s an LDC?” Hopkins said.

“A lesser-developed country,” Dunjee said. “They used to call them underdeveloped, but that hurt their feelings, so they started calling them ‘developing countries.’ But then some sticklers insisted that that wasn’t quite accurate either, because a lot of them weren’t developing anything except their politics. So about the time I went with the UN they’d started calling them lesser-developed, which seemed to please almost nobody. But that’s one of the things the UN is good at — pleasing nobody.”

“Fooled ’em though, didn’t they?” Hopkins said. “I mean with all that oil they found and the price it’s bringing. But I don’t blame ’em, the Arabs, I mean. If I’d been poor all me life, which I bloody well have been, and then woke up one morning and found out I had something everybody in the world was dying to get their hands on, you think I wouldn’t sell it dear? Not likely, mate. What the traffic would bear, that’s what I’d sell it for. What the traffic would bear.”

Hopkins nodded as though he found his economic analysis unassailable. They were seated in the lounge section of the plane. The door to the forward section was locked. The forward section was where Bingo McKay’s ear had been sliced off. It was now occupied by Faraj Abedsaid and the two tough young Libyan guards. The guards had remained in the lounge section with Dunjee and the others during the long delay on the ground in Rome. But once the plane was airborne, they had gone into the forward section, locking the door behind them.

“When we get to wherever we’re going—”

“Tripoli,” Dunjee said.

Hopkins nodded. “Right, Tripoli. What then?”

“I see the man.”

“The chief panjandrum, huh?”

“Right.”

“Then?”

Dunjee sighed. “Then I try to convince him that I’m the sole supplier.”

“Of what?”

“Of whatever his heart desires,” Dunjee said, and attempted a smile, which turned into a lip-stretching exercise without either humor or confidence.

The three of them turned when they heard the door to the forward compartment being unlocked. Abedsaid came through it. He bent down to peer out a window and then looked at Dunjee.

“We’ll be landing in about twenty minutes,” he said, straightening up. “The Captain wants you to fasten your seat belts.”

“What happens after we land?” Dunjee said, snapping his seat belt together.

Abedsaid frowned, as if weary of answering questions. He apparently had had no sleep in the forward compartment. The lines around his mouth had deepened. His eyes were bloodshot.

“You and I,” he said, still frowning at Dunjee. “You and I will take another small journey.”

“Where to?”

Abedsaid shook his head. “The name would mean nothing. As for your two colleagues, they will be taken to a hotel. The Inter-Continental, I think. It’s quite comfortable.”

“You sure it’s a hotel?” Dunjee said.

“A prison perhaps?” Abedsaid said. “A dungeon even?”

“All right. It’s a hotel.”

“You’re very suspicious, Mr. Dunjee.”

“You’re right,” Dunjee said. “I am.”

From one thousand feet up Dunjee counted six chrome-shiny Airstream trailers. They formed an L. Next to them were parked two flatbed trucks. On the beds of the trucks were diesel generators. Parked near the generators were two tanker trucks containing the oil that ran the generators. Scattered here and there were at least two dozen sedans and heavy-duty pickup trucks. Farther away were two French six-passenger Aérospatiale AS 350 Squirrel helicopters, twins of the one that had flown Dunjee and Abedsaid east and south of Tripoli for a little more than forty-five minutes.

Some one hundred yards away from everything was the black tent. Cables from the generators snaked across the sand to it. Near the tent were some stunted trees of some kind.

“That’s the oasis?” Dunjee said as the helicopter wheeled and started down.

“What did you expect?” Abedsaid asked. “Date palms surrounding a small crystal clear pool with cool deep shade and belly dancers?”

“Yeah,” Dunjee said. “Something like that.”

The helicopter landed on a hundred-foot-square of thick green heavy-duty staked-down plastic, something like that used to make garbage bags, only heavier, thicker. Abedsaid said it was to keep the dust and sand from blowing.

But it wasn’t sand that the plastic covered. It was more like a not-quite-formed thin gravel that was mixed together with a gray grit. Nothing grew in it.

Dunjee kicked at it once after they got out of the helicopter and started for the black tent. The blow of his foot made a small plume of gray dust that settled slowly. There was no wind. The dry heat was not quite unbearable. Dunjee guessed that it was just over ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit.

Uniformed soldiers and civilian technicians stared at Dunjee curiously as he followed Abedsaid toward the black tent. Near the generators they passed two inclined banks of round shiny discs.

“Solar?” Dunjee said.

Abedsaid nodded. “Solar.”

There were two young uniformed guards armed with rather fancy-looking machine pistols at the entrance to the tent. They stood in the shade cast by a liplike square of the heavy black material made out of goat hair that protruded from the entrance.

Dunjee had to duck only slightly to enter the tent behind Abedsaid. Once inside, the tent soared up. The ground, he noticed, was covered with the same thick green plastic. The plastic was overlaid with rugs. The rugs looked expensive.

The man Dunjee had come to see sat cross-legged on a rug near the center of the tent. Next to him was a Carrier air conditioning unit. On a nearby small low table rested a white telephone. Next to the telephone was a silent teletype. Just behind the man who sat cross-legged was an office-size refrigerator. And next to that was another small low table that held two thermos carafes and some tiny porcelain cups. The man watched Dunjee approach. He wore a loose white slipover shirt and white duck pants. He was barefoot. He looked younger than Dunjee had expected.

Abedsaid and the seated man spoke in Arabic for nearly a minute while Dunjee stood and waited. It was surprisingly cool in the tent, at least ten or fifteen degrees cooler than out in the sun and it wasn’t because of the small air conditioning unit, which seemed mostly for show. Dunjee, who was still sweating from his walk from the helicopter, took off his jacket.

Abedsaid turned to him, and made a small gesture. “Colonel Mourabet, Mr. Dunjee,” he said.

The seated man stared up at Dunjee. He had a strikingly handsome face, big-nosed and strong-chinned with deepset biuer-brown eyes that managed to look both sad and lively. His hair was black and thick and slightly disarrayed, as if he unconsciously combed it with his fingers. The only evident touch of vanity was the mustache, carefully clipped and tended, that spread across his wide upper lip. It was, Dunjee decided, a smart man’s face. Very smart.

“Sit, Mr. Dunjee,” Mourabet said with a curiously polite gesture. “Sit and we will talk American. You observe I didn’t say English.”

“I noticed,” Dunjee said as he dropped his jacket to the rug and lowered himself down, imitating Mourabet’s cross-legged position.

Mourabet glanced up at Abedsaid. “You may leave us,” he said. Abedsaid nodded, turned, and left. Mourabet shifted his gaze to Dunjee and smiled. It was a warm smile, very wide, very friendly. Dunjee automatically discounted its sincerity and smiled back.

“Would you like some tea or coffee?” Mourabet said, gesturing toward the two carafes. “Did you know that we Libyans drink more tea per capita than any other country in the world?”

“I read that somewhere,” Dunjee said. “Quite an accomplishment.”

“But then for guests, foreign guests, I also have beer. American beer. Schlitz, I think.”

“A beer would be nice.”

Without getting up, Mourabet turned and opened the small refrigerator. He took out a can of Schlitz, leaned forward, and offered it to Dunjee. “They say it is better drunk from the can. It stays cold longer.”

“The can will be fine.” Dunjee flipped the top open and then waited for Mourabet to pour himself a cup of tea. Mourabet took a sip of the tea; Dunjee took two long swallows of the beer.

“If you were asked, how would you identify yourself?” Mourabet said.

“Chubb Dunjee.”

“And your race?”

“American.”

“That’s not a race.”

“No, but it’s handy.”

Mourabet nodded. “If I were asked the same question, I would say I am Mourabet, a Moslem, one of the Arabs who happens to be a Libyan.”

“A somewhat broader concept,” Dunjee said politely, and waited to see what would come next.

“What were you doing in 1969, Mr. Dunjee?”

Dunjee paused, as though to give it some thought. “I was in Congress.”

“And your age then?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“You are forty-one now?”

“Yes. Almost forty-two.”

“I am a year younger. Qaddafi was the youngest of us all. He was only twenty-seven in ’sixty-nine. I suppose you never met him?”

“No.”

“He and I went through the academy together. And later, they sent us to England for ten months in 1966. To Beaconsfield. We studied communications. He began planning for the revolution when he was twenty-one — back in 1963. Some of us at first were skeptical. But he overcame our doubts. There are some men who God chooses as leaders. He was one of them.”

“He died — rather unexpectedly, I understand.”

“A stroke. The entire country was... desolated. I comfort myself sometimes with remembering his courage and bravery on the first of September.”

“In ’sixty-nine.”

“Yes. Idris was in Turkey. We had postponed it twice already. Some of us wanted to postpone again. Qaddafi would not hear of it. He convinced us through his — will, his personality. At two o’clock in the morning we struck. Not one single person died.”

“I remember,” Dunjee said and drank some more of his beer.

Mourabet waited politely until Dunjee lowered the can. “When I asked you how you would identify yourself, I did so for a reason.”

“So I suspected.”

“You see, Qaddafi was convinced — and I shared his conviction — that we have a broader responsibility, one that extends beyond the borders of our country. What we have accomplished here in Libya, we feel we must help others to accomplish.”

“Revolution,” Dunjee said.

“Or justice.”

“Through revolution.”

“As an American, you must believe in revolution.”

“It depends on what comes afterwards.”

“Democracy, you mean.”

Dunjee shook his head. “Not necessarily. Democracy’s never perfect. You can try it, find it doesn’t work, discard it, and then go back to it when the time’s ripe. Nigeria’s an example of that. This time I think it’ll work there.”

Mourabet smiled. “You mean they can afford it now?”

Dunjee smiled back. “Something like that.”

“I think we understand each other. Do you know who my first American was?”

“Who?”

“Captain Eugene Stallings of Memphis, Tennessee, and the United States Air Force. Or rather Madame Stallings. They were my first Americans and I was their first servant. At Wheelus. I was the houseboy. Madame Stallings taught me English — or American, I suppose. I have that accent, I am told.”

“Sort of southern,” Dunjee said.

“Really?”

“But charming.”

“And the grammar?”

“Perfect,” Dunjee said.

“She was a former schoolteacher. She really wasn’t quite sure whether to order me around or adopt me. Later, an American, a black American, told me I was probably what he called the house nigger. I was only thirteen then. But through the Stallings’ efforts, I was later able to enter the academy. Years later, I decided that I quite despised them — especially her.”

“Indebtedness is not always a comfortable feeling,” Dunjee said and finished his beer.

“Another?” Mourabet said.

Dunjee shook his head. “No thank you.”

“These broader responsibilities I spoke of. Several years ago we decided that some of our revenues should be used to finance the efforts of those who were trying to overcome oppression, regardless of its form.”

“So you bankrolled freedom fighters.”

Mourabet blinked. “I was quite sure you would call them terrorists.”

“I am Dunjee, an American. You are Mourabet, a Moslem, one of the Arabs who happens to be a Libyan.” Dunjee shrugged. “Labels.”

Mourabet nodded slowly. He then reached into a pocket of his loose cotton pullover and took out a folded sheet of paper that seemed to have been ripped from the teletype. He unfolded it carefully. “This is your curriculum vitae, I believe it is called. You have had a strange career.”

“Which is probably why I’m here.”

“Yes, I reckon so. That’s southern, isn’t it? Reckon so?”

“That’s southern.”

“This was supplied us by our friends in the PLO.”

“You’ve patched things up then?”

“With the PLO? Oh, yes. Some time ago.” Mourabet looked down at the paper. “The Mordida Man. That means the giver of bribes, I believe. Spanish — or Mexican?”

“Mexican,” Dunjee said.

“What did you do exactly in Mexico?”

“I got people out of jail. Rich people. Rich people’s kids, to be precise.”

“By giving bribes?”

Dunjee shook his head. “Not always. Sometimes those who could arrange the release were more interested in something else.”

“More than money?”

“More than money.”

“What?”

“Recognition.”

“Aaah! I think I understand. And you were able to supply this... recognition?”

“Sometimes.”

“And what else would they want, those who could arrange the prisoners’ release? Some of them already must have had all the money and fame they could use. What else would they want?”

“What else?” Dunjee said. “Usually revenge.”

“Aaah! Revenge. Yes. The colder it is the sweeter it tastes. What form did this revenge take?”

“Political embarrassment mostly.”

“You could arrange this?”

“With enough money, you can arrange almost anything.”

“How severe was the embarrassment?”

“People went to jail sometimes. Sometimes not.”

“So by arranging the imprisonment of one, you secured the release of another?”

“Sometimes.”

“And you did this for a living?”

“That’s right.”

Mourabet turned and opened the refrigerator again. He removed a can of beer and handed it to Dunjee. “Here,” he said. “You look a bit thirsty.”

“Thank you.”

From the refrigerator’s freezer compartment Mourabet also removed something small and oblong and carefully wrapped in heavy aluminum foil. He placed it on the rug in front of him.

“Today — here — you are representing who— Whom, isn’t it?”

“Whom,” Dunjee said. He took a deep breath. “The President of the United States.”

“Really?” Mourabet said and began peeling back the aluminum foil. When he was done a severed finger lay on foil. The finger was pointing at Dunjee.

He stared at the finger for a moment, then looked up at Mourabet. “Felix?”

“Yes. Felix. We paid ten million dollars for it. I’m beginning to suspect that we paid it to the CIA.”

Dunjee shook his head. “No.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re sure it’s Felix’s finger?”

“We’re sure. It was flown from New York to Paris. The French have his fingerprints on file. At present, we’re rather chummy with the French for a change. Chummy. American or English?”

“Both. But more English than American usually.”

“Yes. Well, they identified it. The French.”

“How’d you pay out the money?”

“Through a bank transfer to an intermediary in New York. He’s Gambia’s permanent representative to the UN.”

“Dr. Mapangou?”

“Do you know him?”

Dunjee nodded. “I’ve been to his parties.”

“An honest man?”

Dunjee thought about it. “Maybe. Also greedy. Very greedy.”

Mourabet shrugged. “Well, no matter. I received a call from New York early this morning. Dr. Mapangou was found dead yesterday in a park. His neck had been broken.”

“So you’re out ten million dollars.”

Mourabet nodded. “Ten million. Mr. Dunjee, we have a country that is two and one half times as large as Texas with a population that barely equals Houston’s. Our per-capita income is among the highest in the world. Ten million dollars to us is of no particular consequence. Felix is. He is to my government an important symbol, not an altogether attractive one perhaps, but. still of great importance to us in our relations with a large number of dissident groups around the world. We gave Felix sanctuary when no one else would. We personally guaranteed his safety. His kidnapping diminishes us in the eyes of those we support. We will — and I wish to stress this — go to any lengths to get him back.”

Dunjee stared at Mourabet for several seconds. Finally, in a clear, firm voice he said, “The Americans don’t have Felix. They never had him.”

Mourabet stared back. There was a long silence. Mourabet finally broke it. “You could be lying.”

“What good would it do?”

Mourabet seemed to consider that. He ran his fingers through his hair. After a moment, he carefully began rewrapping the finger in the aluminum foil. When he was done, he replaced it in the small refrigerator’s freezing compartment and turned back to Dunjee.

“Do you think he’s alive?”

Dunjee shook his head. “No. Do you?”

Mourabet sighed. “Probably not. You want something, of course.”

“Yes.”

“President McKay’s brother. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Mourabet cocked his head slightly to one side as he studied Dunjee. “And you are prepared to offer me something in exchange. I am trying to decide what it will be. Not money, of course.”

Dunjee smiled slightly. “Hardly.”

“What then?”

“I’ll give you whoever kidnapped Felix.”

“Aaah! Revenge!”

“Revenge.”

“You are, I’m beginning to think, a very clever man, Mr. Dunjee. You’re offering me the one thing you know I cannot resist. But, of course, I first have to give you something in exchange, don’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Not money.”

“No.”

“I could make you quite wealthy, you realize.”

“It’s tempting.”

Mourabet smiled. “But not tempting enough?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“You tell me where Bingo McKay is being held. That’s all.”

“That is not much of a bargain. If I told you that, then your President could send in a CIA or Army team to try to rescue him.”

Dunjee shook his head. “You’d kill him first.”

Mourabet nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, we would, I’m afraid.”

“And besides, I’m not going to tell the President.”

“You distrust his associates?”

“I distrust their ability to keep their mouths shut.”

There was another lengthy silence as Mourabet again studied Dunjee, much in the way he might study an interesting but abstract piece of sculpture, which he found himself liking, although he wasn’t at all sure why.

At last, he said, “I think I finally have decided what you really are, Mr. Dunjee.”

“What?”

“A patriot. A curious one, but a patriot nonetheless.”

Dunjee grinned. “Does that mean we have a deal?”

“Yes,” Mourabet said. “With a few caveats on my part, I really believe we do.”

“Bingo McKay,” Dunjee said. “He’s in Malta, isn’t he?”

For the first time, Mourabet scowled. “I must insist on knowing who told you.”

“It was none of your people.”

“Who?” Mourabet demanded.

Dunjee tried to decide how best to describe the Wreck in Rome. At last he said, “A family friend.”